Among the many things I claim to be—teacher, preacher, actor, writer, poet, student, scuba diver, biker—when writing I find I tend to neglect the "biker" part. And that's not fair.
I don't suppose I'm a "typical" biker. Sure, I ride a Harley, and sure I've got tattoos, and I absolutely love to ride, but I'm not really affiliated with a club and most of my riding is solo. I feel the fellowship of the road and the almost-mystical freedom bikers know, but I don't obsess about riding any more than I obsess about scuba diving or writing or whatever. I don't drop every spare dollar on my bike (a beautiful 2009 Harley Davidson Road King Classic), although I do spend money on it once in a while, and I don't ride every chance I get, though I prefer riding to driving in principle (and because it's more economical fuel-wise).
Still, there is a freedom I find when riding; there is something therapeutic about rolling down the road with wind in my face and sun on my skin and the rumble of the engine beneath. There is something profoundly empowering about twisting the throttle and accelerating away; away from my mundane existence, away from my worries and frets, away from my frustrations and anxieties, away.
There's more to two-wheel therapy than escape, however. Sometimes it's what's in the rearview, and sometimes it's what's in front of you, but often, often, it's the ride itself that is therapeutic. It's a powerful sensory experience: wind against your face, sun on your skin, the sounds of the engine and the tires on the road, the smells of the countryside, the warmth, the chill, the sights—all these things stimulate senses too-often anesthetized by our modern mediated lifestyle.
And riding is empowering...in a world where so many of us are so often at the mercy of forces outside our control that a sense of empowerment is precious and rare.
Physics may play a part in it; even a heavy pig like my bike—810 pounds plus rider—has a better power-weight ratio than all but the most extravagant of automobiles. Occasionally some young driver in a souped-up import will pull up next to me at a light and want to "race." I don't do that—I have nothing to prove—yet ironically my normal, measured acceleration is almost always better than said import can manage with the accelerator pedal floored.
Maybe you're wondering what stimulated this blog. It isn't a subject I write on, really—it isn't really about the traumas in my life or the epiphanies that excite me—so what brought this on? Fair question...
This morning my Harley goes in for its 35,000 mile service, and while it's in I'm having a different pair of handlebars installed. All this is in preparation for next weekend's Laughlin River Run, an event that draws bikers from across the country. I've never been—let's face it, I'm not a "typical biker," not into drinking and dancing and breaking the rules for the sake of breaking the rules, so it's a bit of a foreign land to me—but with recent traumas (ah-HA!) and their effects on my schedule, I found myself free and some friends were attending, so I figured, "Why not?" Something new, something different, something outside my comfort zone, might be just what the doctor ordered.
So Friday morning a couple of friends are meeting me at my house and we're taking the scenic route to Laughlin: 350 miles, with lunch in Lake Havasu before the final leg. I'm looking forward to it. Escapism is part of the appeal, and two-wheel therapy is in there, too, and good company won't hurt...
Here's to riding free!
Still, there is a freedom I find when riding; there is something therapeutic about rolling down the road with wind in my face and sun on my skin and the rumble of the engine beneath. There is something profoundly empowering about twisting the throttle and accelerating away; away from my mundane existence, away from my worries and frets, away from my frustrations and anxieties, away.
There's more to two-wheel therapy than escape, however. Sometimes it's what's in the rearview, and sometimes it's what's in front of you, but often, often, it's the ride itself that is therapeutic. It's a powerful sensory experience: wind against your face, sun on your skin, the sounds of the engine and the tires on the road, the smells of the countryside, the warmth, the chill, the sights—all these things stimulate senses too-often anesthetized by our modern mediated lifestyle.
And riding is empowering...in a world where so many of us are so often at the mercy of forces outside our control that a sense of empowerment is precious and rare.
Physics may play a part in it; even a heavy pig like my bike—810 pounds plus rider—has a better power-weight ratio than all but the most extravagant of automobiles. Occasionally some young driver in a souped-up import will pull up next to me at a light and want to "race." I don't do that—I have nothing to prove—yet ironically my normal, measured acceleration is almost always better than said import can manage with the accelerator pedal floored.
Acceleration equals Force divided by mass (A = F/m), so for a given Force (engine power), the lower the mass the higher the acceleration. My motorcycle weights a third or less what even that little import weighs, and my engine produces a great deal of power (Force) for its size, so the little import really doesn't have a chance.While the import's engine is whining away and the driver is frantically rowing through gears, I smoothly, effortlessly just accelerate away.Power like that can be intoxicating; that's why some riders do foolish things (and get themselves messily killed). I find it liberating, and I think many other bikers do, too. And yes, sometimes it's very satisfying to put other motorists in the rear-view, as well.
Maybe you're wondering what stimulated this blog. It isn't a subject I write on, really—it isn't really about the traumas in my life or the epiphanies that excite me—so what brought this on? Fair question...
This morning my Harley goes in for its 35,000 mile service, and while it's in I'm having a different pair of handlebars installed. All this is in preparation for next weekend's Laughlin River Run, an event that draws bikers from across the country. I've never been—let's face it, I'm not a "typical biker," not into drinking and dancing and breaking the rules for the sake of breaking the rules, so it's a bit of a foreign land to me—but with recent traumas (ah-HA!) and their effects on my schedule, I found myself free and some friends were attending, so I figured, "Why not?" Something new, something different, something outside my comfort zone, might be just what the doctor ordered.
So Friday morning a couple of friends are meeting me at my house and we're taking the scenic route to Laughlin: 350 miles, with lunch in Lake Havasu before the final leg. I'm looking forward to it. Escapism is part of the appeal, and two-wheel therapy is in there, too, and good company won't hurt...
Here's to riding free!
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